CHAPTER XIIOn those poor frail sisters who’ve fallen low,And who suffer and die through the sins of men—More sinned against, than sinning, I trow—Shew Thy Mercy—Thy Pity—Lord Christ, Amen.—Court of Common PleasWearily, and with a throbbing pain in his torn ear, Ellis resumed his vigil. An hour slowly passed. Two hours. Suddenly a restless movement from the bed aroused him from the dreamy lethargy into which he had sunk, and he gazed into the wide-open, bewildered eyes of the awakened girl that were regarding him wonderingly through their long lashes.“How did I come here?” she articulated painfully.“I carried you in,” he said. “You’ve been in here for nearly three hours now.”Her lips moved soundlessly, and she remained with puckered forehead, as if striving to collect her thoughts.“Then who were those other men?” she said in a hoarse whisper.“Well, one was the postmaster, and there was the man that owns the hotel. The other man was the doctor. It was he who fixed you up.”Then, for the first time, she seemed to notice his bandaged head. With a little cry, she struggled feebly to raise herself, eyeing him fearfully the while.“Where’s Harry?” she gasped tensely. “You’ve been hurt, like me. Did you an’ him get shootin’ at each other again? Oh, tell me. Where is he?”He strove to soothe her and allay her agitation, but without avail.“Please! oh, please, Policeman!” she sobbed. “Don’t arrest him. Let him go! He didn’tmeanto hurt me.”Her continued piteous pleading moved him greatly. Puzzled at this attitude towards the man who had ruined and maltreated her, Ellis inquired gently:“Why?”The great imploring dark eyes became like two twin stars, seeming to search his very soul, as a wave of ineffable forgiving pity and devotion glorified the face of the dying girl.“Because—I—I—” she faltered.The simplicity of her implied admission struck him dumb with surprise for a moment, and he stared at her in stupefied amazement.“What?” he almost shouted. “You still love that chap after—after—”Speech failed him and he could only continue to look at her in awed wonder.Hard as they may find it to observe other precepts of the Great Master, this one, at least, most women have practised easily and naturally for over nineteen hundred years—“Forgive, until seventy times seven.”The acts of some of these—how they warred with their husbands and paramours and were worsted; how they provoked the presiding magistrate and stultified the attesting policeman by obstinately ignoring their injuries written legibly in red, and black, and blue; how they interceded with many sobs for the aggressor—are they not written in the book of the chronicles of every police court in the world?This propensity leads them into scrapes, it is true, for our world in its wisdom will always take advantage of such weaknesses. Perhaps the next will make them some amends.The bright, fever-lit eyes never left Benton’s face, and two tears rolled down her sunken cheeks as she nodded silently in answer to his incredulous query. Such an expression, indeed, might the Covenanter’s widow have worn, as she looked into the ruthless countenance of Graham of Claverhouse and begged for the life of her only son. And such it is, also, that makes Guido’s famous picture of Beatrice Cenci one of the saddest paintings on earth.Thatlook was almost more than the Sergeant could endure, and he hastily turned his head away to hide the hot, blinding tears that sprang to his eyes. There seemed something very terrible, just then, in the pathetic working of his stern face, as the strong man strove to hide his emotion.“Diamonds and pearls,” he whispered brokenly to himself; “diamonds and pearls.”Andthis—love such asthis, had the dead man gained, then spurned brutally from him, and cast away.The Soul—to the last, could still triumph over the poor broken Body, andLove—glorious, all-forgiving Love—arise, victorious and conquering; through life—through death—aye—beyond the grave itself—to the very Resurrection Morn.The sands of the poor sufferer’s existence were running out fast now. Benton shuddered when he thought of the horror that would surely come into those shining, steadfast eyes if she were told whose blood was upon his hands. Why disturb the brief space that was allotted to her by revealing the awful truth? It would be a crime, he reflected. He lied, bravely and whole-heartedly.“No,” he said. “I haven’t arrested him, my girl. I was chasin’ after him, an’ scratched one of my ears pretty bad climbin’ through that barbed-wire fence alongside the track. A way-freight goin’ East pulled through just about five minutes after, an’ I guess he must have made his get-away on that.”She drank in his words with an eagerness that tortured his conscience sorely, but a quick, joyful light dawned on her face as his reward, and she sank back on the pillows again with a little weary, gratified sigh of relief. The strain had been too much for her, however, and she began to choke pitifully, as a fresh gush of blood bubbled up from her lips and stained her white breast. He slipped an arm under her head and, tenderly as a woman might have done, he soothed and ministered to her paroxysm.For some few minutes she lay in a sort of stupor, and he watched her anxiously, undecided whether or not to awaken Musgrave; but presently she revived a little and her breathing became easier. The flow of blood from her mouth had abated and, as she looked up and saw him supporting her, the pale lips relaxed into a faint semblance of their old roguish smile; when her face and bosom had been gently sponged, and she had drunk a glass of water, she spoke—almost in a whisper, but quite calmly and clearly:“You ca-can’t—arrest me—now!”The unutterable pathos of her pitiful little jest nearly broke him down then but, with a struggle, he raised his eyes and, with a twisted mouth, smiled valiantly back at her.“What did—that—doctor—say?” she asked slowly. “Does he—think—I’ll—die? I feel so—very—weak—and—tired ... and my—chest—hurts me—terrible.... I think I—must be—dying.... Am I?... Look—at me—Policeman!... tell me.... Did he—say—I’m not—afraid....”“Elsie, girl,” he said unsteadily. “Elsie, you’re—” He stopped and, choking a little, reached out a slightly shaking hand to smooth back the dark curly hair from her white forehead. “You’re going home, girl—you’re going home!”She gazed at him searchingly for a few seconds, then turned her head away listlessly, with a sharp intake of her breath. There was a long silence which was broken by Ellis.“Elsie Baxterisyour name, all right, isn’t it?” he asked gently.She nodded, watching his face closely meanwhile.“How old are you?”“Twenty-two,” she whispered.“What nationality?”“American.”“What part of the States do you come from, my girl?” he continued. “Where are your parents—if you have any—or your friends?”But his inquiries failed to elicit any response, and all he got was the same passive look of mute entreaty which she had exhibited to all his queries on the occasion of their first meeting.“Come,” he whispered coaxingly. “Why won’t you tell me? You ought to.”She sighed as if she were exhausted. “What’s the—use?” she murmured. “My real mother—is—dead—an’—an’—my father—an’ my step-mother—were unkind—to me—so I ran—away....”She met his perplexed look with a faint, weary smile, and cuddled his hand beseechingly. “That’s all,” she said. “There.... I can’t—tell you any—more—now.... Best—thing—if they never—hear.... I’m—going soon—where—I don’t—know.” She ceased, panting for breath.He desisted then, for the doctor’s final injunctions came to his remembrance with a pang of regret. He had encouraged her to talk too much already.Aye—whatwasthe use, he reflected. There was a world of meaning in her answer—too great to be misunderstood. Time, it is true, had wrought curious changes in his wandering life and ways, and both memory and conscience had, to a certain extent, become oblivious to many things; but, in the former faculty, assuredly one period in his history was not included. With a bitter hatred which not even the lapse of over twenty years could quench, he recalled only too well, the pale, sneering face of the virago who had usurped the place of his own gentle mother, and whose animosity had eventually been the means of drivinghimfrom home, also.“Yes,” he mused. This poor dying waif and he probably had much in common.The girl lay quiet for a long while, and a cheap American alarm clock ticked sharply in the stillness. Presently she turned her face to him again and regarded him earnestly.“Will—you please—say a—prayer?” she articulated painfully. And, as he hesitated and looked at her in dumb misery: “Won’t you?... even—even—for—such as me?”A terrible revulsion of feeling shook his strong frame. Who was he, that he should dare to presume to pray for the dying? Fallen sinner though she might be—what washe?... And a vision of his own reckless and irresponsible past seemed to rise up before him accusingly.“Please,” the weak voice pleaded.With bowed head and bursting heart he falteringly repeated the only prayer that he remembered—“The Lord’s”—and, with its “Amen,” a solemn, awesome quiet descended upon the little room.And then—the end came very quickly. She turned her head and looked at him kindly. Her eyes were alight with a great, dreamy happiness, and in their depths he beheld the radiant glory that, passing all human understanding, heralds the near approach of death.“Kiss me,” she whispered faintly.All his manhood sorely shaken, he stooped to bestow the caress. Only once in that last quiet minute of life—for death-struggle there was none—the white lips moved; and the Sergeant, bending down his ear, caught what may have been an appeal to the Father’s mercy, but Ellis always believed it was a man’s name.She sighed once or twice wearily, gasped a little and, leaning her head back with a slight shiver, the poor girl’s spirit went forth into the Night.For a long time Benton never stirred. A sense of utter desolation, he knew not why, seemed to gather all around him. Inheriting from his mother a strongly impressionable nature, he was always chivalrously predisposed towards women and, somehow, complete stranger to him though the unfortunate waif was, the inexpressible pathos of her lonely, tragic death stirred all his being with a great, compassionate pity.Suddenly he broke down and burst out sobbing, with the deep, convulsive emotion terrible to witness in a strong man; then, throwing his arms about the dead girl, he fell to his knees and, gazing imploringly into her quiet face, held her tightly, as if that firm clasp would hold her back one step on the road along which the messengers of God had beckoned her.Would those with whom he was a byword for hard sternness of character have known himthen?The light of the lamp sank lower, flickered a little, and was gone. Worn out, mentally and bodily, the bowed head of the tired, kneeling watcher gradually drooped forward until it rested upon the bosom of the motionless form. The still face had settled into the serene, peaceful grandeur of the death-calm. Beautiful she had been in life, aye, but never so beautiful as now.Then, to the exhausted, sleeping man, there came a wondrous dream, and in it, behold! she appeared unto him again in all the glory of her youth, innocence, and beauty, clad in white and glistening raiment, with her arms outstretched to him from afar on High.And, in her great, dark eyes, he seemed to see shining the love and pity of Mary Magdalene—she whom He denied not, but said: “Her sins which are many are forgiven, for she loved much; but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little.”
CHAPTER XIIOn those poor frail sisters who’ve fallen low,And who suffer and die through the sins of men—More sinned against, than sinning, I trow—Shew Thy Mercy—Thy Pity—Lord Christ, Amen.—Court of Common PleasWearily, and with a throbbing pain in his torn ear, Ellis resumed his vigil. An hour slowly passed. Two hours. Suddenly a restless movement from the bed aroused him from the dreamy lethargy into which he had sunk, and he gazed into the wide-open, bewildered eyes of the awakened girl that were regarding him wonderingly through their long lashes.“How did I come here?” she articulated painfully.“I carried you in,” he said. “You’ve been in here for nearly three hours now.”Her lips moved soundlessly, and she remained with puckered forehead, as if striving to collect her thoughts.“Then who were those other men?” she said in a hoarse whisper.“Well, one was the postmaster, and there was the man that owns the hotel. The other man was the doctor. It was he who fixed you up.”Then, for the first time, she seemed to notice his bandaged head. With a little cry, she struggled feebly to raise herself, eyeing him fearfully the while.“Where’s Harry?” she gasped tensely. “You’ve been hurt, like me. Did you an’ him get shootin’ at each other again? Oh, tell me. Where is he?”He strove to soothe her and allay her agitation, but without avail.“Please! oh, please, Policeman!” she sobbed. “Don’t arrest him. Let him go! He didn’tmeanto hurt me.”Her continued piteous pleading moved him greatly. Puzzled at this attitude towards the man who had ruined and maltreated her, Ellis inquired gently:“Why?”The great imploring dark eyes became like two twin stars, seeming to search his very soul, as a wave of ineffable forgiving pity and devotion glorified the face of the dying girl.“Because—I—I—” she faltered.The simplicity of her implied admission struck him dumb with surprise for a moment, and he stared at her in stupefied amazement.“What?” he almost shouted. “You still love that chap after—after—”Speech failed him and he could only continue to look at her in awed wonder.Hard as they may find it to observe other precepts of the Great Master, this one, at least, most women have practised easily and naturally for over nineteen hundred years—“Forgive, until seventy times seven.”The acts of some of these—how they warred with their husbands and paramours and were worsted; how they provoked the presiding magistrate and stultified the attesting policeman by obstinately ignoring their injuries written legibly in red, and black, and blue; how they interceded with many sobs for the aggressor—are they not written in the book of the chronicles of every police court in the world?This propensity leads them into scrapes, it is true, for our world in its wisdom will always take advantage of such weaknesses. Perhaps the next will make them some amends.The bright, fever-lit eyes never left Benton’s face, and two tears rolled down her sunken cheeks as she nodded silently in answer to his incredulous query. Such an expression, indeed, might the Covenanter’s widow have worn, as she looked into the ruthless countenance of Graham of Claverhouse and begged for the life of her only son. And such it is, also, that makes Guido’s famous picture of Beatrice Cenci one of the saddest paintings on earth.Thatlook was almost more than the Sergeant could endure, and he hastily turned his head away to hide the hot, blinding tears that sprang to his eyes. There seemed something very terrible, just then, in the pathetic working of his stern face, as the strong man strove to hide his emotion.“Diamonds and pearls,” he whispered brokenly to himself; “diamonds and pearls.”Andthis—love such asthis, had the dead man gained, then spurned brutally from him, and cast away.The Soul—to the last, could still triumph over the poor broken Body, andLove—glorious, all-forgiving Love—arise, victorious and conquering; through life—through death—aye—beyond the grave itself—to the very Resurrection Morn.The sands of the poor sufferer’s existence were running out fast now. Benton shuddered when he thought of the horror that would surely come into those shining, steadfast eyes if she were told whose blood was upon his hands. Why disturb the brief space that was allotted to her by revealing the awful truth? It would be a crime, he reflected. He lied, bravely and whole-heartedly.“No,” he said. “I haven’t arrested him, my girl. I was chasin’ after him, an’ scratched one of my ears pretty bad climbin’ through that barbed-wire fence alongside the track. A way-freight goin’ East pulled through just about five minutes after, an’ I guess he must have made his get-away on that.”She drank in his words with an eagerness that tortured his conscience sorely, but a quick, joyful light dawned on her face as his reward, and she sank back on the pillows again with a little weary, gratified sigh of relief. The strain had been too much for her, however, and she began to choke pitifully, as a fresh gush of blood bubbled up from her lips and stained her white breast. He slipped an arm under her head and, tenderly as a woman might have done, he soothed and ministered to her paroxysm.For some few minutes she lay in a sort of stupor, and he watched her anxiously, undecided whether or not to awaken Musgrave; but presently she revived a little and her breathing became easier. The flow of blood from her mouth had abated and, as she looked up and saw him supporting her, the pale lips relaxed into a faint semblance of their old roguish smile; when her face and bosom had been gently sponged, and she had drunk a glass of water, she spoke—almost in a whisper, but quite calmly and clearly:“You ca-can’t—arrest me—now!”The unutterable pathos of her pitiful little jest nearly broke him down then but, with a struggle, he raised his eyes and, with a twisted mouth, smiled valiantly back at her.“What did—that—doctor—say?” she asked slowly. “Does he—think—I’ll—die? I feel so—very—weak—and—tired ... and my—chest—hurts me—terrible.... I think I—must be—dying.... Am I?... Look—at me—Policeman!... tell me.... Did he—say—I’m not—afraid....”“Elsie, girl,” he said unsteadily. “Elsie, you’re—” He stopped and, choking a little, reached out a slightly shaking hand to smooth back the dark curly hair from her white forehead. “You’re going home, girl—you’re going home!”She gazed at him searchingly for a few seconds, then turned her head away listlessly, with a sharp intake of her breath. There was a long silence which was broken by Ellis.“Elsie Baxterisyour name, all right, isn’t it?” he asked gently.She nodded, watching his face closely meanwhile.“How old are you?”“Twenty-two,” she whispered.“What nationality?”“American.”“What part of the States do you come from, my girl?” he continued. “Where are your parents—if you have any—or your friends?”But his inquiries failed to elicit any response, and all he got was the same passive look of mute entreaty which she had exhibited to all his queries on the occasion of their first meeting.“Come,” he whispered coaxingly. “Why won’t you tell me? You ought to.”She sighed as if she were exhausted. “What’s the—use?” she murmured. “My real mother—is—dead—an’—an’—my father—an’ my step-mother—were unkind—to me—so I ran—away....”She met his perplexed look with a faint, weary smile, and cuddled his hand beseechingly. “That’s all,” she said. “There.... I can’t—tell you any—more—now.... Best—thing—if they never—hear.... I’m—going soon—where—I don’t—know.” She ceased, panting for breath.He desisted then, for the doctor’s final injunctions came to his remembrance with a pang of regret. He had encouraged her to talk too much already.Aye—whatwasthe use, he reflected. There was a world of meaning in her answer—too great to be misunderstood. Time, it is true, had wrought curious changes in his wandering life and ways, and both memory and conscience had, to a certain extent, become oblivious to many things; but, in the former faculty, assuredly one period in his history was not included. With a bitter hatred which not even the lapse of over twenty years could quench, he recalled only too well, the pale, sneering face of the virago who had usurped the place of his own gentle mother, and whose animosity had eventually been the means of drivinghimfrom home, also.“Yes,” he mused. This poor dying waif and he probably had much in common.The girl lay quiet for a long while, and a cheap American alarm clock ticked sharply in the stillness. Presently she turned her face to him again and regarded him earnestly.“Will—you please—say a—prayer?” she articulated painfully. And, as he hesitated and looked at her in dumb misery: “Won’t you?... even—even—for—such as me?”A terrible revulsion of feeling shook his strong frame. Who was he, that he should dare to presume to pray for the dying? Fallen sinner though she might be—what washe?... And a vision of his own reckless and irresponsible past seemed to rise up before him accusingly.“Please,” the weak voice pleaded.With bowed head and bursting heart he falteringly repeated the only prayer that he remembered—“The Lord’s”—and, with its “Amen,” a solemn, awesome quiet descended upon the little room.And then—the end came very quickly. She turned her head and looked at him kindly. Her eyes were alight with a great, dreamy happiness, and in their depths he beheld the radiant glory that, passing all human understanding, heralds the near approach of death.“Kiss me,” she whispered faintly.All his manhood sorely shaken, he stooped to bestow the caress. Only once in that last quiet minute of life—for death-struggle there was none—the white lips moved; and the Sergeant, bending down his ear, caught what may have been an appeal to the Father’s mercy, but Ellis always believed it was a man’s name.She sighed once or twice wearily, gasped a little and, leaning her head back with a slight shiver, the poor girl’s spirit went forth into the Night.For a long time Benton never stirred. A sense of utter desolation, he knew not why, seemed to gather all around him. Inheriting from his mother a strongly impressionable nature, he was always chivalrously predisposed towards women and, somehow, complete stranger to him though the unfortunate waif was, the inexpressible pathos of her lonely, tragic death stirred all his being with a great, compassionate pity.Suddenly he broke down and burst out sobbing, with the deep, convulsive emotion terrible to witness in a strong man; then, throwing his arms about the dead girl, he fell to his knees and, gazing imploringly into her quiet face, held her tightly, as if that firm clasp would hold her back one step on the road along which the messengers of God had beckoned her.Would those with whom he was a byword for hard sternness of character have known himthen?The light of the lamp sank lower, flickered a little, and was gone. Worn out, mentally and bodily, the bowed head of the tired, kneeling watcher gradually drooped forward until it rested upon the bosom of the motionless form. The still face had settled into the serene, peaceful grandeur of the death-calm. Beautiful she had been in life, aye, but never so beautiful as now.Then, to the exhausted, sleeping man, there came a wondrous dream, and in it, behold! she appeared unto him again in all the glory of her youth, innocence, and beauty, clad in white and glistening raiment, with her arms outstretched to him from afar on High.And, in her great, dark eyes, he seemed to see shining the love and pity of Mary Magdalene—she whom He denied not, but said: “Her sins which are many are forgiven, for she loved much; but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little.”
On those poor frail sisters who’ve fallen low,And who suffer and die through the sins of men—More sinned against, than sinning, I trow—Shew Thy Mercy—Thy Pity—Lord Christ, Amen.—Court of Common Pleas
On those poor frail sisters who’ve fallen low,And who suffer and die through the sins of men—More sinned against, than sinning, I trow—Shew Thy Mercy—Thy Pity—Lord Christ, Amen.—Court of Common Pleas
On those poor frail sisters who’ve fallen low,
And who suffer and die through the sins of men—
More sinned against, than sinning, I trow—
Shew Thy Mercy—Thy Pity—Lord Christ, Amen.
—Court of Common Pleas
Wearily, and with a throbbing pain in his torn ear, Ellis resumed his vigil. An hour slowly passed. Two hours. Suddenly a restless movement from the bed aroused him from the dreamy lethargy into which he had sunk, and he gazed into the wide-open, bewildered eyes of the awakened girl that were regarding him wonderingly through their long lashes.
“How did I come here?” she articulated painfully.
“I carried you in,” he said. “You’ve been in here for nearly three hours now.”
Her lips moved soundlessly, and she remained with puckered forehead, as if striving to collect her thoughts.
“Then who were those other men?” she said in a hoarse whisper.
“Well, one was the postmaster, and there was the man that owns the hotel. The other man was the doctor. It was he who fixed you up.”
Then, for the first time, she seemed to notice his bandaged head. With a little cry, she struggled feebly to raise herself, eyeing him fearfully the while.
“Where’s Harry?” she gasped tensely. “You’ve been hurt, like me. Did you an’ him get shootin’ at each other again? Oh, tell me. Where is he?”
He strove to soothe her and allay her agitation, but without avail.
“Please! oh, please, Policeman!” she sobbed. “Don’t arrest him. Let him go! He didn’tmeanto hurt me.”
Her continued piteous pleading moved him greatly. Puzzled at this attitude towards the man who had ruined and maltreated her, Ellis inquired gently:
“Why?”
The great imploring dark eyes became like two twin stars, seeming to search his very soul, as a wave of ineffable forgiving pity and devotion glorified the face of the dying girl.
“Because—I—I—” she faltered.
The simplicity of her implied admission struck him dumb with surprise for a moment, and he stared at her in stupefied amazement.
“What?” he almost shouted. “You still love that chap after—after—”
Speech failed him and he could only continue to look at her in awed wonder.
Hard as they may find it to observe other precepts of the Great Master, this one, at least, most women have practised easily and naturally for over nineteen hundred years—“Forgive, until seventy times seven.”
The acts of some of these—how they warred with their husbands and paramours and were worsted; how they provoked the presiding magistrate and stultified the attesting policeman by obstinately ignoring their injuries written legibly in red, and black, and blue; how they interceded with many sobs for the aggressor—are they not written in the book of the chronicles of every police court in the world?
This propensity leads them into scrapes, it is true, for our world in its wisdom will always take advantage of such weaknesses. Perhaps the next will make them some amends.
The bright, fever-lit eyes never left Benton’s face, and two tears rolled down her sunken cheeks as she nodded silently in answer to his incredulous query. Such an expression, indeed, might the Covenanter’s widow have worn, as she looked into the ruthless countenance of Graham of Claverhouse and begged for the life of her only son. And such it is, also, that makes Guido’s famous picture of Beatrice Cenci one of the saddest paintings on earth.
Thatlook was almost more than the Sergeant could endure, and he hastily turned his head away to hide the hot, blinding tears that sprang to his eyes. There seemed something very terrible, just then, in the pathetic working of his stern face, as the strong man strove to hide his emotion.
“Diamonds and pearls,” he whispered brokenly to himself; “diamonds and pearls.”
Andthis—love such asthis, had the dead man gained, then spurned brutally from him, and cast away.
The Soul—to the last, could still triumph over the poor broken Body, andLove—glorious, all-forgiving Love—arise, victorious and conquering; through life—through death—aye—beyond the grave itself—to the very Resurrection Morn.
The sands of the poor sufferer’s existence were running out fast now. Benton shuddered when he thought of the horror that would surely come into those shining, steadfast eyes if she were told whose blood was upon his hands. Why disturb the brief space that was allotted to her by revealing the awful truth? It would be a crime, he reflected. He lied, bravely and whole-heartedly.
“No,” he said. “I haven’t arrested him, my girl. I was chasin’ after him, an’ scratched one of my ears pretty bad climbin’ through that barbed-wire fence alongside the track. A way-freight goin’ East pulled through just about five minutes after, an’ I guess he must have made his get-away on that.”
She drank in his words with an eagerness that tortured his conscience sorely, but a quick, joyful light dawned on her face as his reward, and she sank back on the pillows again with a little weary, gratified sigh of relief. The strain had been too much for her, however, and she began to choke pitifully, as a fresh gush of blood bubbled up from her lips and stained her white breast. He slipped an arm under her head and, tenderly as a woman might have done, he soothed and ministered to her paroxysm.
For some few minutes she lay in a sort of stupor, and he watched her anxiously, undecided whether or not to awaken Musgrave; but presently she revived a little and her breathing became easier. The flow of blood from her mouth had abated and, as she looked up and saw him supporting her, the pale lips relaxed into a faint semblance of their old roguish smile; when her face and bosom had been gently sponged, and she had drunk a glass of water, she spoke—almost in a whisper, but quite calmly and clearly:
“You ca-can’t—arrest me—now!”
The unutterable pathos of her pitiful little jest nearly broke him down then but, with a struggle, he raised his eyes and, with a twisted mouth, smiled valiantly back at her.
“What did—that—doctor—say?” she asked slowly. “Does he—think—I’ll—die? I feel so—very—weak—and—tired ... and my—chest—hurts me—terrible.... I think I—must be—dying.... Am I?... Look—at me—Policeman!... tell me.... Did he—say—I’m not—afraid....”
“Elsie, girl,” he said unsteadily. “Elsie, you’re—” He stopped and, choking a little, reached out a slightly shaking hand to smooth back the dark curly hair from her white forehead. “You’re going home, girl—you’re going home!”
She gazed at him searchingly for a few seconds, then turned her head away listlessly, with a sharp intake of her breath. There was a long silence which was broken by Ellis.
“Elsie Baxterisyour name, all right, isn’t it?” he asked gently.
She nodded, watching his face closely meanwhile.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” she whispered.
“What nationality?”
“American.”
“What part of the States do you come from, my girl?” he continued. “Where are your parents—if you have any—or your friends?”
But his inquiries failed to elicit any response, and all he got was the same passive look of mute entreaty which she had exhibited to all his queries on the occasion of their first meeting.
“Come,” he whispered coaxingly. “Why won’t you tell me? You ought to.”
She sighed as if she were exhausted. “What’s the—use?” she murmured. “My real mother—is—dead—an’—an’—my father—an’ my step-mother—were unkind—to me—so I ran—away....”
She met his perplexed look with a faint, weary smile, and cuddled his hand beseechingly. “That’s all,” she said. “There.... I can’t—tell you any—more—now.... Best—thing—if they never—hear.... I’m—going soon—where—I don’t—know.” She ceased, panting for breath.
He desisted then, for the doctor’s final injunctions came to his remembrance with a pang of regret. He had encouraged her to talk too much already.
Aye—whatwasthe use, he reflected. There was a world of meaning in her answer—too great to be misunderstood. Time, it is true, had wrought curious changes in his wandering life and ways, and both memory and conscience had, to a certain extent, become oblivious to many things; but, in the former faculty, assuredly one period in his history was not included. With a bitter hatred which not even the lapse of over twenty years could quench, he recalled only too well, the pale, sneering face of the virago who had usurped the place of his own gentle mother, and whose animosity had eventually been the means of drivinghimfrom home, also.
“Yes,” he mused. This poor dying waif and he probably had much in common.
The girl lay quiet for a long while, and a cheap American alarm clock ticked sharply in the stillness. Presently she turned her face to him again and regarded him earnestly.
“Will—you please—say a—prayer?” she articulated painfully. And, as he hesitated and looked at her in dumb misery: “Won’t you?... even—even—for—such as me?”
A terrible revulsion of feeling shook his strong frame. Who was he, that he should dare to presume to pray for the dying? Fallen sinner though she might be—what washe?... And a vision of his own reckless and irresponsible past seemed to rise up before him accusingly.
“Please,” the weak voice pleaded.
With bowed head and bursting heart he falteringly repeated the only prayer that he remembered—“The Lord’s”—and, with its “Amen,” a solemn, awesome quiet descended upon the little room.
And then—the end came very quickly. She turned her head and looked at him kindly. Her eyes were alight with a great, dreamy happiness, and in their depths he beheld the radiant glory that, passing all human understanding, heralds the near approach of death.
“Kiss me,” she whispered faintly.
All his manhood sorely shaken, he stooped to bestow the caress. Only once in that last quiet minute of life—for death-struggle there was none—the white lips moved; and the Sergeant, bending down his ear, caught what may have been an appeal to the Father’s mercy, but Ellis always believed it was a man’s name.
She sighed once or twice wearily, gasped a little and, leaning her head back with a slight shiver, the poor girl’s spirit went forth into the Night.
For a long time Benton never stirred. A sense of utter desolation, he knew not why, seemed to gather all around him. Inheriting from his mother a strongly impressionable nature, he was always chivalrously predisposed towards women and, somehow, complete stranger to him though the unfortunate waif was, the inexpressible pathos of her lonely, tragic death stirred all his being with a great, compassionate pity.
Suddenly he broke down and burst out sobbing, with the deep, convulsive emotion terrible to witness in a strong man; then, throwing his arms about the dead girl, he fell to his knees and, gazing imploringly into her quiet face, held her tightly, as if that firm clasp would hold her back one step on the road along which the messengers of God had beckoned her.
Would those with whom he was a byword for hard sternness of character have known himthen?
The light of the lamp sank lower, flickered a little, and was gone. Worn out, mentally and bodily, the bowed head of the tired, kneeling watcher gradually drooped forward until it rested upon the bosom of the motionless form. The still face had settled into the serene, peaceful grandeur of the death-calm. Beautiful she had been in life, aye, but never so beautiful as now.
Then, to the exhausted, sleeping man, there came a wondrous dream, and in it, behold! she appeared unto him again in all the glory of her youth, innocence, and beauty, clad in white and glistening raiment, with her arms outstretched to him from afar on High.
And, in her great, dark eyes, he seemed to see shining the love and pity of Mary Magdalene—she whom He denied not, but said: “Her sins which are many are forgiven, for she loved much; but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little.”